


Dragon’s Rise

by ipreferfiction



Series: The Dragon’s Blood [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arya Stark Gets a Valyrian Steel Sword, Bonding in Near-Death Experiences, Eventual Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Sibling Bonding, Valyria, Warg Arya Stark, Warg Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-09-18 23:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20321629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipreferfiction/pseuds/ipreferfiction
Summary: A year after Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow, and Tyrion Lannister ended the Long Night, a year after Daenerys surrendered the Iron Throne to Stannis Baratheon, Dany begins to dream of a fallen city and a voice that tells her to remember who she truly is. She is being called to Old Valyria—the only problem is that Valyria is a death sentence now, four hundred years after the Doom.Daenerys has faced worse odds than that. She is determined to find out why she dreams of a faceless woman with a Valyrian steel crown and who that woman is, and the only answers she will find lie deep in the shattered peninsula of the Valyrian Freehold.A Targaryen, a Stark, a Snow who’s a bit of both, and a Lannister set out to discover what it truly is that Valyria has become. They might manage to achieve their destinies, too, by the end of it.





	1. Daenerys I

The Storm Keep’s walls, Dany had found, were good for perching, even if they were unfinished. Spring had brought gentle rains to King’s Landing, washed the devastated city clean with the snowmelt. She had found that she loved the rain more than she liked the harsh winter in which she had first seen her kingdom, though Drogon wasn’t fond of either. She had laughed when he hid like a cat in the ruins of the Dragonpit, his brothers close on his tail.

Now, they were nowhere to be seen. Rhaegal and Tyrion, she knew, were circling over the Westerlands, as they were wont to do when their stays in King’s Landing grew stifling. Viserion circled high above the city; Jon Snow did not ride him today, too busy with his own tasks.

Dany searched the sky again. Across the city, a black shape moved in the ruins of the Dragonpit. That was Drogon, then, returned from hunting. She would go to him soon, but not now.

Now, she sat atop one of the few completed walls and watched the clouds cross the sky. She would not have much longer to be at peace.

At the end of winter, when Aegon Blackfyre had made his bid for the throne and won it, Dany had stood beside him. She had seen his Valyrian blood in the pale hair and indigo eyes, and he was dark enough to be Elia Martell’s son. When he had called out a challenge to Cersei Lannister, her dragons had stood behind him.

But then Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion had unleashed their flames, and King’s Landing had burned green with her father’s wildfire, and her would-have-been nephew died in the ensuing battle. Only later had she learned the truth of him. Only then had she wept.

Westeros had not trusted her after that, no matter if it was her father and Cersei Lannister who were responsible, both of them dead at Jaime Lannister’s hands. When Stannis Baratheon had come south with the might of Winterfell and the North behind him, she had been happy to give him the throne. He was the Usurper’s brother, perhaps, but she could not see him laughing at two bodies in bloody cloaks as the Usurper had laughed at Rhaenys and the true Aegon. He was a harsh man, but he was just.

It was Stannis Baratheon who had rebuilt King’s Landing, not Dany. Her dragons would plant trees, but not here. Not now. She had sat by and watched as the rubble of the Red Keep, the one good legacy of that third terrible king of Westeros, was hauled away. Some part of her heart had ached to see another bit of her family stripped down as he ordered the Storm Keep built where her family had ruled for five hundred years, but she had felt cleansed, too. Peaceful, for the first time in a very long while.

More so when King Stannis Baratheon named her Lady of Dragonstone, managing not to mutter about the state of the place until after she had risen with her family’s home restored to her.

“You ended the Long Night, you and Snow and Lannister,” he had stated plainly. “You made war for the same reason I did. There are people,” and here he had glanced at his Hand, “who have seen that you would be a good ruler. I will not surrender the throne to you, but I will give you that which is your birthright.”

He had ground his teeth the whole way through, but she knelt as Dany and arisen Daenerys Targaryen, Lady of Dragonstone. In that moment, she had finally felt at home.

“Daenerys!” called a soft voice from below. Dany looked down to see Missandei, nearly a woman grown, standing at the base of the wall. Princess Shireen followed close behind her.

Dany laughed and jumped down.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

It was Shireen who answered. “Your dragons. I have heard so much of them, but father would not allow me near enough to see. If it isn’t too much trouble, my lady, I wish to hear what it is like to fly.”

Her voice was clear and strong, though her flush was visible through the greyscale on one cheek and at the tips of her unfortunate Florent ears. Dany thought her shyness might at last be easing.

“Walk with me, princess, and I will speak of dragons,” Dany answered. Shireen smiled.

At fifteen, the princess was fast friends with clever Missandei, just a year younger. They both loved books and stories, and Dany had found them many an evening holed up in the Storm Keep’s libraries with candles burning low, talking in a different language every week. Sometimes a brown-haired boy in Kingsguard white joined them, the Hand’s son; other times, it was Arya Stark and her skinny blade. Dany had asked them what they were doing one evening; the long-faced Northern girl had answered, “Needlework,” her eyes glimmering. Dany had barely turned the corner when the three of them had burst into laughter, and Dany had needed to hurry away before they heard her laughing, too.

Jon had told her about Arya Underfoot and Needle, after all. If Arya wanted to teach her friends how to fight in exchange for Essosi stories of warrior queens and magic, she was welcome to.

Dany was midway through the story of her first flight on Drogon’s back when she and Shireen came to the edge of the castle. Her breath caught so suddenly that the words stopped in her throat as King’s Landing spread out before her.

“My lady?” Shireen asked gently. Dany shook her head.

“Forgive me, princess,” she murmured. “The sight startled me, that is all.”

And it had. A year and some after wildfire had razed it to the ground, the city had been rebuilt. Hammers still rang out in places, and carts still hauled huge blocks of stone through the streets, but the city looked like a city again. It was mapped out more like an Essosi city than a Westerosi one, with wide streets laid out in straight lines. Dany had suggested the plans, and the king had stopped grinding his teeth long enough to consider her argument.

The garden they had been walking in opened onto a marble terrace overlooking the city. Part of Aegon’s Hill had crumbled in the explosions, and the garden looked over the edge and down two hundred feet or more to where the houses and shops started up again. Dany found that it was her favorite place in the Keep.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Shireen said, smiling. “My father will be remembered for all this. I only hope I will be as good a queen as he is a king.”

Dany forced herself to take a breath. _I will not be queen of ashes._

_You will not be queen at all,_ a small voice in the back of her skull hissed. She ignored it.

“My lady, you will be a good a queen as Alysanne,” Dany replied. “You will certainly rule better that I.”

A flush crept up Shireen’s cheeks again.

“You honor me,” she said. “Thank you. But let us talk of something other than ruling. You speak Dothraki, yes? And Valyrian? Missandei has been teaching me the latter, but it is my hope to learn as much as I can.”

“Naathi and Ghiscari, as well,” Dany stated. “Let me hear what you’ve learned, though. High Valyrian is my mother tongue.”  
The words Shireen spoke were clumsy and slightly mispronounced, but her structure was impeccable. Dany took a seat on a nearby bench, patted the spot beside her, and lost herself in her favorite language.

_Mhysa, mhysa, mhysa. Mother of dragons, slayer of lies. Mother of dragons, bride of fire. Stormborn, khaleesi, queen. This is who you are, Daenerys Targaryen. Remember who you are. Remember who you are._

Dany bolted awake with a gasp. Sweat soaked her linen shift and slicked her hair back; she caught a glimpse of frantic violet eyes and silver hair falling across her face in the mirror across her room.

She threw her blanket off with a heave and clambered out of bed. The chill walls and floor of Dragonstone were comforts to her heated skin, and she pressed briefly against the wall before tugging off her shift and splashing herself with the cold water in her washbasin.

Faint rays of light had begun to appear over the horizon when Dany at last peered through the window. She gave up on more sleep and dressed; first came her black breeches, then a red linen tunic. The black collars and cuffs were embroidered with black and silver dragons. She set rubies in her ears and around her neck, and she selected a chain of them that she would have one of her handmaidens braid into her hair once true morning came. For now, she tied the silver-gold strands back with a strip of worn leather Jon Snow had given her long ago.

Morning had still not come, though the horizon had lightened slightly more. Daenerys grew restless in her chamber. It was far smaller and far darker than her rooms in Meereen had been, with its black stone walls. The black and red tapestry depicting the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen did little to lighten the room, though the torches burning in dragon-claw sconces did bring some light in.

“How did my ancestors stand it?” she asked herself aloud as she paced the room. In the almost-light, the Valyrian walls seemed to close in upon her.

_Remember who you are,_ a voice murmured in her head. The remains of her dream flickered in and out of focus, all scattered words and images. She rubbed her temples and gave up on the bedroom.

Daenerys Targaryen had reached her eighteenth nameday not long after she was named Lady of Dragonstone. She had been a woman grown when she ended the Long Night with Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister at her sides. She had been a woman grown a year earlier, when one of her children was stolen from her by a blue-lipped Iron Islander who spoke too much of Old Valyria. And yet she still felt half a child sometimes. She lived two years in Westeros and did not know half of what a highborn woman her age should know. The customs were as foreign to her as the Dothraki had seemed at first, and they looked on her as a foreigner.

A foreign would-be queen who burned their city to the ground. She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. Rhaegal’s flame had burned green, but the wildfire had burned greener…

No matter. The Mad Queen had paid for her crimes when her twin wrapped his hand around her throat.

A year and more had passed since then. If she looked back, she was lost.

Dany raised her head as a great thunder of wings sounded in the courtyard. She hurried to her balcony to see Viserion’s cream scales glimmering in the early dawn; behind him fell the green blur of Rhaegal. Dany grinned at that—their riders were grown, but the dragons still nipped at each other as they had years ago on the Dothraki Sea. She pulled on a pair of black boots and a black cloak lined with scarlet and left her chambers to greet her guests.

Tyrion was still removing the chains that anchored him to Rhaegal when Dany reached the courtyard, but Jon had already gotten himself free of Viserion’s saddle. Though he was the last of them to ride, he had taken quickly to the skies.

“My lady,” he said, inclining his head.

“Lord Commander,” she replied. His answering smile was sad.

“No longer.”

“You know, the lord of the Rock is here too,” Tyrion groused, at last dropping to the ground. Dany smiled at him.

“Forgive me, my lord. You are a welcome sight.”

“I doubt that. This face gives _me_ nightmares, and it’s mine,” he said, laughing. “Lady Daenerys. Well met.”

Tyrion had come to Meereen a slave and left a dragon rider. Dany did not underestimate him. He made for a good Hand, when she had been a queen and had need of one. Back in Westeros, Stannis Baratheon had known of his skills and granted him his lifelong desire: Casterly Rock. The Kingslayer, stripped of his white cloak and all but his knighthood for the murder of his twin, was quite content to live out his days on Tarth even without the lordship that had gone to his little brother.

“What brings you to Dragonstone?” Dany asked the pair of them. She had last seen Jon two weeks earlier, as she was leaving King’s Landing. Tyrion had been gone at the Rock for even longer.

Jon was silent as he looked out across the castle grounds. He had been released from his Night’s Watch vows after that final battle, but he still dressed all in black—he had never wanted to leave the Wall.

Finally, he said, “I would have liked to ask Maester Aemon while he lived. I would have liked him to know that he was not alone in the world. But you are the last Targaryen, so I must needs ask you. I wish to know the history of your house. All of it, all I did not learn as Ned Stark’s bastard. If it is true that I am Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark’s child, I would know who my father was.”

In the time since he had found out his true ancestry, Jon had never asked her about their house. She was surprised he was asking now, but only too happy to speak to the last Targaryen besides her.

“And you?” Dany asked the dwarf.

Tyrion ran his gaze over the castle. “Casterly Rock wishes to extend some alliances. I would hear your thoughts, both of you. But don’t let me keep you from your conversation. I will be content to wander the grounds for now; tell your men to watch their knees.” He nodded at the pair and waddled out toward a nearby hall.

Dany reached up and stroked Rhaegal’s snout. The dragon chirped at her, and Viserion crowded his brother out of the way. She heard Jon laugh to see the dragons fight like puppies for attention, and she found herself laughing, too. Drogon joined them soon enough; he crawled from his nest in the top of a disused tower to garner attention from Daenerys.

“Come, Jon,” she said at last, pushing the dragons’ snouts out of the way. “There are places in this castle that I know I have not yet showed you. We will speak of House Targaryen along the way.”

Jon smiled at Viserion and whistled for his direwolf. Ghost came trotting out from behind the dragon; he was taller than his master. It would have been strange to see him on Dragonstone when Jon had flown, but Jon had ordered something built to hold his wolf when he traveled on dragonback. After the Night’s Watch had put four knives in him, he rarely went anywhere without Ghost to guard him.

“Thank you,” Jon said as Dany let him toward the old storerooms, the great wolf trailing them. “I have heard little and less about Prince Rhaegar and your ancestors that is not clouded by the rebellion. I…I know House Stark. I know their history. I would like to do the same for your house.”

“I will tell you what I know and show you what I’ve found here on Dragonstone,” Dany told him. “There are rooms here that His Grace never opened when he was lord of this place. I do not think he even knew they existed. My ancestors—our ancestors, truly— filled them with all sorts of things.

Dany talked, and Jon Snow listened. She told him of Rhaegar, valiant and noble and dead, of Viserys, who was never truly a dragon. She talked of everything she knew and showed him what she had found in the depths of the castle. Here, a worn tapestry with a dragon standard; there, a journal bearing a princess’ name; this room, full of dusty swords and shields; that closet, where some long-ago Targaryen had carved their initials into the smooth wooden door. In the great hall, the dragon skulls from the rooms beneath the Red Keep had been hung; Dany named each one and its rider for Jon, and Ghost reared up on his hind legs to sniff the huge black bones.

At last, in the belly of the castle, Dany halted in front of a pair of massive stone doors. This was the least frequented place in the castle, but Dany had been drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

“What is this?” Jon asked, staring up at the intricate carvings on the doors. Dany smiled.

“Come inside and look,” she answered. “This is our family’s birthright.”

He looked at her strangely; she could not tell if it was because of her cryptic reply or her use of “our.” Still, he followed her in and watched as she tipped her torch into the trench that ran along the walls.

The room lit up in a burst of fire, and Dany set her torch into a dragonglass stand with a satisfied smile.

Jon’s breath caught in his throat. He took a step forward to stand beside Dany; the firelight stretched his long Northern features and turned his skin from brown to gold.

“Are those…”

“Dragon eggs.”

The nursery was big enough for a dragon larger than her three to crawl into. Divots were set into the black stone walls and on the fourteen pedestals set around the room. Fourteen for the Valyrian gods or the Fourteen Flames, she had realized when she found the room. Half of them were filled with glimmering eggs.

“Those four—are they the ones from the crypts?” Jon asked, peering down at the closest pedestal. One egg glistened white and grey, two grey and scarlet, while the fourth was blue and pale green.

“Your brother gave them to me after he was crowned, so I brought them here. They are not stone, as mine were. I hoped they might hatch, or that I could keep them safe here,” Dany said. The eggs had been found deep in the crypts of Winterfell, though Dany had not been in the North at the time. She had come to the castle for Bran Stark’s coronation as King in the North, and he had passed them to her then. She knew not which

Jon reached out a tentative hand. “May I?”

“You are the blood of the dragon. I told you, they are your birthright as much as mine.”

In Valyria of old, before the Doom swallowed it, these nurseries might have been in every tower of the twoscore ruling families. Now, there was only one, deep in the heart of Dragonstone. Still, it was warm in the nursery; small holes in the walls and floor spat out steam and heat from the mountain itself, though little of the rest of the castle was so heated.

Dany ran her fingers along a pale pink egg nestled in an alcove on the wall. She would be the last of her house, and the blood of the dragon would be gone from this world. What eggs here that had not turned to stone would do so in the long centuries that followed. She had hatched the first dragons in a hundred years and more, yes, but they would be the last, too.

She had wanted this life, she thought. Had wanted her castle, had willingly given up her crown. But something bothered her still, and her dreams were haunted with visions of black stone and fire.

“Is something troubling you?” Jon questioned. He set down the egg in his hands and stepped toward her.

“No. Forgive me, I just…” She sighed. “I was just thinking.”

Jon nodded and glanced backward at the eggs.

“Thank you, truly, for showing me this place, Daenerys. I know the stain on your brother’s honor that my mother and my birth have caused. You have not treated me the less for it,” he said haltingly.

Dany smiled softly at him. “The sins of the father are not the sins of the son. You and I are the last of our house; what would I be if I shunned you for something you could not change?”

Jon stood less stiffly at her side when they left the nursery behind.

Daenerys Targaryen stood on a balcony of black stone and gazed out towards a city that gleamed a thousand different colors. Below her, two hundred feet or more, smooth roads wove between black towers whose roofs were open to the sky. People filled the city, black and brown and tan and pale, a hundred colors in a hundred shades. Along one horizon, mountain peaks rose up high and blue with distance. She turned her head to see ocean on the other side.

And when she looked up, there were dragons in the sky. One screeched out; another fell with a crash to land upon a tower, where a slim figure with a head of silver stretched out a limb to greet it.

_This is Valyria. I am standing in Valyria._

Dany spun around. Behind her, the fused black stone opened into a wide bedchamber, and she could see a hall leading out to another balcony. She looked down at her bare feet, at the floors covered with mosaics and beautiful rugs, then up again at the hall.

She ran.

The halls flashed and shifted around her with every footfall. When they stilled, she stumbled to a stop in a great stone hall, barely lighter than the jet black of the city around it. The columns that supported the tall ceiling were carved to look like dragons—fourteen great beasts, seven pairs that ran the length of the hall. Their mouths were open, breathing carved flames that reached the ceiling and broke against it.

She reached the base of one of them. It was carved with a name: Syrax. One of the gods of Old Valyria. Its twin across the hall was Meraxes, another of the gods. Then Vhagar, then Balerion, then the rest of them, names she had never learned: Haeryn, Terraxis, and more, up and up and up the hall until the found herself at the base of the throne.

“This is not right,” she said aloud. “The Valyrians had no kings.”

But there it stood nonetheless, carved from white stone and seated just barely above the floor. Two dragons made up its arms, the spread wings of a third its back. The third dragon’s head was pointed toward the ceiling, mouth open in a silent roar.

She blinked, and two dragons themselves were seated on the throne and its nearby mate: one red, one white. She blinked again; a silver-haired woman, her face shadowed, with a crown of rippling metal. Valyrian steel.

_Remember your blood, Daenerys Stormborn,_ whispered a voice that echoed through the hall. She ran for the throne—she needed to see the woman who sat there.

_Remember who you are…_

The throne was so close, but the hall was growing longer…

_Mother of dragons, blood of the dragon…_

She was almost close enough to touch the woman, but her face was still invisible, and the rest of her was growing faint…

_Remember…_

Daenerys awoke cold in her bed, the dream so clear it could have been a memory.

“Why would I dream of a city four hundred years gone?” she murmured to the empty bedchamber.

And the woman on the throne—The Freehold of Valyria had no kings nor queens. They had never been ruled by anyone not elected by their forty high noble families. So, who was she? Why was Dany dreaming of her? What was she supposed to remember?

Dany called for Missandei when morning arrived.

“My lady? Is everything alright?” Missandei asked her. Dany smiled wanly. She knew she must look a mess after the previous nights’ dreams.

“Tell me what you know of Old Valyria, please,” she said. “And braid the bells into my hair.”

“They were an empire that lasted thousands of years,” Missandei began as she picked up a vial of scented oil. She began to comb it through Dany’s hair.

“Do you know of any rulers they had? A queen, perhaps?”

“A queen? No. The Valyrian Freehold elected its own rulers from the great families. You know all this, Daenerys. You are of their blood.” The bells tinkled as Missandei began to braid.

“I know. I had a dream, though…a queen on a throne, though I could not see her face. Towers of black stone with an ocean on one side and the Fourteen Flames on the other. The sky was filled with dragons, and I saw one who was bonded to a rider. The figure was too far away to see clearly, but it had silver hair. And I know that was the city the queen ruled.”

Missandei braided the last bell in place and tied off the end of the braid with amethyst cloth.

“The gods have given you this dream for a reason. I do not know its meaning, but you might learn it soon enough. There are others who have made history a study. Perhaps they will have answers?”

“I fear not. This dream was different. More a summons than a message,” Dany confessed. She told Missandei of the whispers and of what she had dreamt a night earlier.

“You know who you are,” her handmaiden said. “You are the Unburnt, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. You have not forgotten it.”

“Blood of Old Valyria,” Dany muttered. “And now I dream of it.”

The dream had felt like a summons…

“Missandei,” she said slowly, “do you think that I am being called to Valyria?”

Missandei paused by Dany’s wardrobe. Shaking her head, she handed Dany a black undershirt and purple woolen tunic to protect against the chill of Dragonstone. Dany dressed quickly.

“The city is a death sentence to all who enter it. There are Targaryens who have died within the Smoking Sea and the broken peninsula. Why would the gods call you there to die?”

“If they are calling me there, perhaps they mean for me to survive it.”

“It sounds a foolish decision to me,” Missandei replied. “I do not wish for a friend to die on a needless quest.”

Dany smiled at her handmaiden. “And I do not wish to die. But I do not believe I will, should I journey to Valyria.”

Missandei paused for a moment. “The gods have shown you the way before, Daenerys. I suppose they could do it once again.”  
Dany nodded and thanked her.

“Gods, I wish Dorne wasn’t independent,” Tyrion muttered to Dany. His goblet of Dornish red had been refilled three times, and he had all but devoured the feast her kitchens had prepared.

“Princess Arianne Martell is a capable ruler,” Dany stated. “She and I correspond frequently regarding matters of trade, and I spoke to her in the brief time I held the throne.”

“Princess Arianne won’t give the Lannisters a drop of anything.”

“Your father killed her aunt and her cousins, and her uncle died in your trial,” Dany said. “She treats Myrcella quite well, I hear,”

Tyrion glared. “Myrcella Rivers, they’re calling her. She’s actually going to marry their prince Trystane. And she still won’t give me any good wine.”

“Try spending four years on the wall, then see what you think of Arbor gold,” Jon said from Dany’s other side. Tyrion laughed.

“Try slavery in Essos, Snow,” he shot back, still laughing. He turned back to Dany.

“Tell me, Lady Daenerys, have you any future plans?” he asked.

She paused in her meal. A few seats down, Missandei turned from her conversation to appraise Dany’s reaction.

“I do have one, Lord Tyrion, though it is more of an idea right now,” she said, grinning, “I plan to fly for the ruins of Valyria.”

Tyrion gaped at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I assure you, I am.”

“Then why are you sailing to your death?”

“I do not plan to sail. I plan to fly. I have not dreamed my death, my lord, and dragon dreams seldom lie.”

Silence reigned in the hall.


	2. Arya I

Flower petals danced as they fell, and Needle danced with them. The blade spun around and around and around, swift as wind, silent as night. One, two, three, four enemies down, and the water dancer was the victor.

Arya straightened and sheathed her blade. The dummies she’d dragged out to the grove were struck through, one of them nearly split open. She glanced around. No one had found her yet, and she liked it that way. Liked training on her own, deep in the woods with only the gods and the birds as witnesses.

She watched through the birds’ eyes sometimes, to see what else was hiding in the woods with her, but she preferred Nymeria. The wolf was a part of her in a way the cats in Braavos and the birds here had never been. Even in the House of Black and White, she had dreamed through the eyes of the night wolf, dreamed of blood and the hunt and the pack. Only when she’d come back to Westeros had she heard again the name for what she was: a warg, like Jon and Bran and Rickon. Robb, too, she’d thought, but the Freys had butchered him and Grey Wind both. And Sansa, though Cersei had killed her wolf a thousand years ago, when winter was a word and they were all little summer children.

Then they had gone south, Father and Sansa and her, and the Starks had shattered like ice under a hammer.  
Abruptly, Arya realized there were tears in her eyes. She wiped furiously at her face and spun back to the dummies, striking them again and again as if they were the names on her list. She was fourteen, nearly a woman grown, and yet she could not keep at bay her ghosts.

She heard a soft snuffle and turned to her wolf, who leaned over and licked her face. She laughed wetly and wound a hand through Nymeria’s grey fur. She had once thought she’d never see Nymeria again, but she’d found her along the Kingsroad at the head of a pack of man-killers. Never had Arya been prouder.

“I know, I know,” she murmured to the wolf. “The gods got their revenge, and so did I. Crying is useless.”

And yet she still longed to go back to that time when Jon had given her Needle and called her _little sister_, when Father had hired Syrio to teach her how to fight. She would always long for that, but she would never have it again.

She did have a family, though. Sansa, betrothed to the lord of the Eyrie; Bran sitting the weirwood in the North; Rickon here in Winterfell; and Jon. Jon, her brother, if not truly. She’d always been closest to him.

Nymeria’s ears perked up; Arya peered through the trees and slid into the wolf’s skin. Through her heightened senses, Arya caught a cold, earthy scent right before Shaggydog came bursting through the trees, Rickon perched on his back. Her little brother threw himself at her with a yell, and they went tumbling down into the dirt. Rickon was still half-feral, made worse by the wholly untrainable wolf that followed him everywhere. He was all of eight, and a prince, and yet he acted half a wildling.

“Shaggy, attack!” he shouted. The massive black wolf leaped onto his littermate, who growled and snapped back. Before long, the clearing was a mess of limbs and fur.

Arya broke away after a few minutes, laughing. Her brother’s bright red hair was tangled with leaves and dark with dirt, and he was laughing, too, his smile wide and easy. He was starting to heal like the rest of them had, and it warmed Arya to see him happy.

For now, though, she was going back to Winterfell.

The first time Arya had seen Winterfell after she had gone south, she had wanted to weep. The castle had been broken by the Bolton bastard, its towers burned, the glass gardens pulled down and shattered. Only the walls stood strong, and some of those had been damaged by the constant fighting. Winterfell had not looked like home then. It had looked like a tomb.

But Arya had always been more Stark than Tully, and Winterfell belonged to the Starks. She had watched it rebuilt, watched each tower raised up in its rightful place. She had seen as the glass gardens were built again¬; that had been her favorite addition, and she had spent hours among the leaves and earth as the winter snows gave way to spring. Somewhere along the line, Winterfell had become her home again.

The castle walls rose up high around her. In the hall where her lord father had once held audiences with his bannermen, Bran's white throne stood ancient and proud, looking as if it had always been there. Her brother was not seated upon it, though; Arya had met him in his wheeled chair when she entered the castle. He had been examining the defenses with Sansa, who would act as his regent until he reached sixteen.

Robb hadn’t been that old when he was murdered. Not a man grown, yet wed and crowned and killed for trust's sake. Her oldest brother, dead while she howled down the walls of the castle outside, and their lady mother with him.

Arya had gotten her vengeance for her murdered lord and lady and king, but she would never forget. _The North remembers, and I am a daughter of Winterfell._

Nymeria tipped back her head and howled. Arya jerked around to look at her wolf, who had her front paws up on a low stone wall and was staring at the sky. She’d only done that a few times before, when Jon or Lady Daenerys had flown to the castle. That howl meant dragons in the air.

Arya Stark was waiting when the cream-and-gold scaled dragon sailed through the trees to land in the huge courtyard of Winterfell. Its massive wings unfurled, and she saw Jon unhook the fastenings that held him in place before he slid down the dragon’s side. His boots hit the cobblestones with an audible thump.

She lost her dignified composure at that. Grinning, she raced over to him and wrapped her arms around his middle. He laughed as he embraced her back.

“Hello, little sister,” he murmured. “It’s good to see you again.”

Arya grinned and hit his arm.

“Come back home more often, and you might get to see me” she retorted. “Follow me. Sansa and Bran will want to know you’ve come to Winterfell.”

A look of discomfort flashed across Jon’s face at the mention of Sansa. They had set aside their past back when Bran was crowned, but Arya knew Jon was remembering days where she had simply called him “bastard.” Arya knew the feeling well; Sansa had apologized for how she’d treated her little sister, and Arya had done the same for her own japes, but the memory of all her cruel nicknames stuck in Arya’s head.

“I hear that you’re the princess,” Jon said lightly as they walked. “Does a crown treat you well? I hear there are some fine dressmakers only a few days’ ride away.”

Arya hit him again.

“I’ll wear the crown. Not a dress. It’ll make me look like a mossy fencepost.”

Jon looked down fondly at her. “I’ve come to speak with you, truth be told,” he stated as she led him into the hall.

“You rode a dragon from King’s Landing all the way here just to speak to me?”

“The matter is rather important. I would like your brother’s input on the whole thing, truth be told, but I will find you afterwards. I promise you that,” he said solemnly.

“I’ll hold you to it,” she said frankly. “Bran will be here soon. Sansa, too. I’ll be in the godswood when you’re done.”

He nodded seriously, but there was mirth in his eyes as he agreed.

True to her word, Arya did go to the godswood. She wasn’t there to pray, though, and she suspected that Jon had known that when he’d left her to speak to the King in the North. She had barely sat down before she was reaching out for one of the pigeons nesting in the rafters. A cat would have been better, but they were scarce after the winter, so the bird would do.

Her eyes and ears sharpened until she stared down from the ceiling of the hall to where Bran was holding an audience with their brother. Their cousin, truth be told, but Arya would never stop thinking of him as the older brother that had given her Needle and told her, “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

The bird shifted. Arya peered over the rafter’s edge and strained to hear the conversation below.

Jon was mid-sentence, but Sansa and Bran were staring at him with equal looks of curiosity and apprehension.

“…plan is to take the dragons, all three of them,” he said. Arya could barely hear him, so the pigeon settled itself on a beam a few feet lower and leaned farther down.

“It’s still a death sentence,” Sansa said plainly. “You’ll go there, and you’ll die. I’d rather you didn’t.”

Bran cocked his head to the side. “Daenerys Targaryen has dragon dreams, you said. It’s a Targaryen gift, as greensight is among the blood of the First Men. She has not dreamed of death, though? Danger, but not death?”

“She says she’s dreamed of peril and fighting, but not of death,” Jon replied.

_Do they speak of the future? What would be so deadly, even with dragons?_

The answer jumped out to her just as Jon spoke.

“We fly to Valyria in a fortnight. Most of the supplies have been gathered, and the others are organizing their affairs as we speak, the care of their castles and such. I have no such responsibilities, so I have come here to ask what you have seen.”

“Jojen dreamed his death,” Bran said, so quietly that Arya could barely hear it. “Greenseers often do, and the dragons, too. I have seen little and less of this. But if Daenerys has seen nothing of death, even in the fires of the Doom, then I don’t know why you’re asking me for advice. If this is your wish, Jon, then fly there. I cannot see your death.”

Arya had gotten what she came for. She slid smoothly from the bird’s mind and leaned up against the heart tree, waiting for her brother. She did not have to wait long.

“How much of our conversation did you hear?” he asked as he appeared in the grove. Ghost trailed him, silent as ever. His lips were downturned, but his eyes were laughing.

Arya crossed her arms. “Enough. Why are you going to Valyria? Sansa’s right. You’ll die.”

“Dany doesn’t think so.”

“You didn’t call her Dany last time you were here.”

“Arya. Do you wish to hear what I have to say or not?”

“Say it.”

“I want you to accompany us. And Nymeria with you. One Targaryen did not survive the Doom, true, but there are four of us, and three dragons, and three hundred years have passed since Aerea Targaryen died.”

“And how do you expect me to come with you? I don’t have a dragon,” she said.

“No, but you may ride on mine.”

Arya paused. She did like Daenerys, who she’d thought seemed as though the gods had combined Aegon the Dragon and his sisters into one body. And she did like the dragons. She had no desire to die, however. And she especially didn’t want to do it because she fell off a bloody dragon.

The decision had been made as soon as Jon asked the question. The lure of the dragons and their riders, of Old Valyria and all its mysteries and weapons, was too great.

“I’ll go,” she muttered. “But Nymeria comes, too. And if I die, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your days, Jon Snow. I promise you that.”

Jon looked her in the eyes, grey on grey.

“I swear before the heart tree that I will do everything in my power, Arya Stark, to keep every one of us alive,” he said, so intensely that she had no choice but to believe him.

Arya blew out a breath.

“When do I leave?”

Flying on a dragon, as it turned out, was not at all like riding a horse. It was also the best experience of Arya’s life.

When she’d told Sansa, Bran, and Rickon about her decision to leave, they had both protested. Sansa had insisted that every one of them would die, while Bran had simply argued that she had neither Valyrian blood or the magic that bound Tyrion Lannister to his dragon, and so was in more danger than any of the other three. She had replied that she had Needle and her training, and they were all the weapons she needed to survive.

She left Winterfell two days after Jon had arrived. Never before had she traveled so lightly; Jon had told her to bring only what she needed, for clothes would be provided on Dragonstone. She filled half a trunk full of her armor and stuffed the rest full of whatever clothes might work for the trip. Aside from the trunk and Nymeria, who had been forced to share the dragon kennel with Ghost until a second one could be completed, Arya had only what she wore on her person when she left her home behind.

“It’ll be two days’ time before we reach Dragonstone,” Jon warned her, stroking Viserion’s scales. “We stop in the Neck tonight, then finish the journey tomorrow. We won’t stop unless we truly have need of it.”

Arya nodded. Once Jon received the affirmation, he hooked the saddle’s chains into a belt he’d lent her. He went without them, citing the months he’d flown without even a saddle, and sat in front of her.

“You won’t fall, not unless Viserion does,” he said just before they took flight. “Don’t look down unless you’re ready.” Then he shouted a word in High Valyrian, though not one she knew, and the dragon lurched upwards into the sky.

When Arya remembered how to breathe again, she looked down, clutching tightly to Jon’s quilted coat. It was chilled so high in the air, even for the North in early spring. The air was crisp, too; it was clear, and it bit at her lungs as the dragon sailed through the sky.

The earth was so far below them that the smallfolk they saw were little more than specks. Houses were small enough to fit on the nail of Arya’s little finger, and the roads were muddy lines carved with a thin stick. The sight should have terrified her. It did the opposite.

She let out a shaky breath, willing away the fear. She did not need it now.

“This…this is beautiful,” she said to Jon. He smiled.

“I felt alive the first time I rode Viserion. I hadn’t felt like that since my brothers betrayed me,” he told her. “I know that my blood plays its part in that, but flight is freedom in a way nothing else has ever been.”

Arya loosened her grip on Jon’s clothes and leaned back enough to see around him. The horizon stretched out in a jagged line far off in the distance; she thought that might be the Neck, where they would make their camp that night.

“How fast do the dragons fly?” Arya asked. “How does Daenerys control them?”

Arya had taken to Daenerys as soon as she’d met her. She had still been a girl when she conquered whole cities and freed the slaves there, and she’d been younger when she hatched her dragons. Now, she rode the biggest of them into battle. Arya had not seen the lady often since the Others were vanquished, though, as she had only visited King’s Landing a few times. She’d spent most of her time with Missandei and Shireen, teaching them to fight in exchange for stories and lessons in High Valyrian. Daenerys had once come upon them, but she had mostly been busy with her duties.

“Daenerys was able to find some Valyrian methods of control, but she raised the dragons as you raised Nymeria. They will obey their mother. The dragons can cross the whole of Westeros in three days, though we are not going all the way to Sunspear.”

After that, they lapsed into silence. Arya was content to watch the ground pass beneath the great cream-colored wings, and Jon concentrated wholly on the dragon. Besides, conversation was difficult when the wind stole the words from your mouth.  
As the sun sunk toward the horizon, the swamps of the Neck came into sight. Jon steered Viserion toward the edge of a bog and landed him on the ground, ensuring that it was solid. When he was satisfied, he let Arya unchain herself and climb down from the dragon’s saddle. She was sore, and her bladder was full, but she could not keep the smile from her face.

“Take care of what you need to,” Jon said, motioning to a bank of bushes. “I’ll unsaddle our mount and release the wolves. They will all wish to hunt.”

She did so. A few minutes later, when Viserion flew off to hunt, Jon set up camp and started a fire. Arya was asleep within the hour, warm meat and bread heavy in her belly.

She awoke to the sound of a sword slicing through the air. When she opened her eyes, Jon had disassembled their makeshift camp and piled their gear next to Viserion’s saddle. The dragon had not finished hunting down his breakfast, but Nymeria and Ghost were tussling near where Jon stood swinging his Valyrian steel sword, Longclaw.

Arya stretched and yawned; Jon paused his practice when he saw that she had woken up.

“Get dressed, and then we’ll see who’s the better swordsman,” he said with a grin. She smirked.

“We both know who that is, brother,” she replied.

She dressed as quickly as possible and unsheathed Needle, running through her stretches and warming herself up. She had not practiced in a day or two, but she knew what her advantages were. Jon was taller, stronger, and had more practice, but she was a water dancer, small and lithe. The match would be too close to tell.

“The match ends when one of us has the other cornered. Viserion will be some time yet,” Jon said. Arya nodded, and steel met steel. Up, down, all along the bank they raced, forcing each other back and losing ground in equal turns. But Jon’s sword was Valyrian steel and hers was not, and she found herself being backed toward the stagnant water nearby. Nymeria was up and growling by the end of it, but Longclaw’s point was at Arya’s throat. She yielded, laughing.

“I need practice,” she said. Jon reached over and ruffled her hair as he sheathed his sword.

“You have a gift, little sister.”

Viserion returned as Jon and Arya broke their fast. The cream scales around his mouth were flecked with blood, but he appeared more docile than he had been in the late hours of the previous evening, and Jon saddled him with relative ease. They were airborne again within the hour.

“Dragonstone will be in sight three or four hours after midday,” Jon told her when Viserion was on his course again. “Once we see it, the flight will be nearly over. Watch the sky. You might even see Daenerys in the air.”

Jon talked of House Targaryen as the day wore on. He mentioned the huge skulls Lady Daenerys had brought back to Dragonstone, the sublevels that were filled with too many rooms to count, even the eggs Bran had given the former queen after he was given the weirwood crown. Arya listened, fascinated, even if she could still remember the terror she’d felt when she had stumbled across the skulls in the belly of the Red Keep.

In exchange, Arya spoke of her role in Winterfell of late. It had been two months or more since Jon had come to see them, even longer since she’d gone to King’s Landing to visit. She had liked Missandei, who was cleverer than anyone Arya knew, and Princess Shireen always had a story to tell. She wrote to them frequently, now that she was acting the princess back home. Jon laughed when she told him that she was nearly as good a swordsman as any of the guards at Winterfell; the sound was carried off by the wind, but for a moment Arya was back in summer.

They ate when the sun reached its peak, though they did not stop Viserion for any longer than it took them to eat and relieve themselves. Hours later, just as Arya was beginning to think that they were lost, Jon pointed out over the shimmering water to a black smudge in the far-of waves.

“Dragonstone,” he cried.

Arya was too breathless to speak. The waves passed smooth as rolling grassland beneath Viserion’s wings. Arya had long ago stopped clinging to Jon’s coat, holding only lightly to the chains that bound her to the saddle. Now, she leaned as far over the edge as she dared and watched the water move beneath her. This was nothing like the ships she’d taken. This was amazing.  
Nymeria yipped inside the chained-down kennel. Arya looked over her shoulder and laughed loud and bright, watching her wolf, then the ocean, then Jon as he turned back to her and laughed as loud as she had.

Before she knew it, the great dark castle of Dragonstone came into sight. She had never been there, so the sight of so many stone dragons shocked her more than it should have. The castle itself looked like little more than a monument raised from the ground itself.

Something above her screamed. Arya looked up to see a huge red and black dragon, its rider a silver-haired woman dressed in the same colors. Drogon and Lady Daenerys Targaryen. Jon raised a hand in greeting, and Daenerys returned it. Then they were falling to the castle below, and Arya forgot to think about the other rider.

Jon pulled Viserion out of the dive just before they smashed against the courtyard. The dragon landed with a thundering crash, and Arya glanced up to see Daenerys and hers doing the same. Jon leaped down from his mount; Arya unchained herself and released the wolves, then slid down the dragon’s smooth scales. She was standing by Jon’s side when Lady Daenerys dismounted and walked over to them. Her violet eyes were bright, her silver braids wind-mussed, and she was grinning as widely as Arya herself had been.

“Princess Arya Stark, welcome to the castle of Dragonstone,” she intoned. “Jon, I am glad to see your flight was well.”

“Lady Daenerys,” Arya answered, dipping her head. Jon did the same.

“Now that we have dispensed with titles, let us speak as true friends,” Daenerys said, smiling. “Princess Arya. If you wish to speak with Missandei, I believe she is to be found in her chambers or in the library. Irri is the one with the painted vest, over there; she will show you the way, if you ask. Jon and I have much to discuss. I will speak with you tonight at supper, and on the morrow, we will discuss the journey ahead.”

That was fine with Arya. She did want to see her friend, and she had no desire to sit through the same discussions she’d sat through half a hundred times with Sansa and Bran.

She watched them leave, the two last scions of House Targaryen, then turned and padded off, Nymeria on her heels. She had a castle to explore and a friend to greet, and then she had a journey to Valyria. With the memory of the dragon ride clinging to her, she left behind the courtyard, still smiling. For the first time in a long while, she felt truly alive again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit shorter than the previous one, but I hope I did a good job at describing what the kingdoms (especially the North) and the Starks are like now. Next up: Jon I, in which the journey to Old Valyria grows nearer and nearer.


	3. Jon I

Jon had never known a fortnight to pass any more quickly. The journey had already been laid out by the time he set out to retrieve Arya from Winterfell and consult his cousins. He had left more than a month after Dany had first proposed the idea over supper to Tyrion and him, and it had taken little convincing for either of them to agree to fly with the Lady Daenerys.

Tyrion, of course, wanted some adventure, perhaps to gain glory for House Lannister. He had been especially interested in the dragon dreams and the visions Dany had seen. Jon Snow had only a bastard’s name and a bastard’s sword, and a war his parents had begun. He missed his family, Arya and Rickon and Bran and even Sansa, future lady of the Vale, but they weren’t even his half siblings. They were naught more than cousins. And if Daenerys flew to Old Valyria, and she wanted him to accompany her, who was he to refuse? He may have been a bastard, but he did not believe that she was the sort to relegate him to the servants’ table for it.

A week came and went in a haze of preparation. Ships of provisions docked at Dragonstone, were unloaded, and left again. The leatherworkers and steelsmiths that Daenerys had brought to the island finished the last work on each of the three saddles, though the lady of Dragonstone would not let her guests see them until they were saddling their dragons for the flight. Tyrion handed over Casterly Rock to a clever golden Lannisport Lannister until he returned.

And Jon waited. He helped where he could, counting out provisions and organizing crates for the flight. He oversaw what Dany had no time to; he had once been Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and he did retain some knowledge of governance. He kept Arya out of trouble the best he could, though she had taken to following whoever of Daenerys’ khalasar had remained in Westeros, prying until they taught her to defend against an arakh. He had given up when he found her perched like an especially long-faced gargoyle on a windowsill of the Stone Drum watching the ships pass. Left to her own devices, she stuck near Missandei and caused little trouble that could trace back to her, so Jon gave up trying to follow her.

Some nights after Jon returned with Arya and her wolf, Daenerys held what was a feast in celebration of the journey. It was a smaller affair than some Jon had seen, but she invited landed knights and nobles from all around her island and beyond, even Lord Monford Velaryon and his children, who had sworn themselves to House Targaryen many years earlier. The great hall of Dragonstone was nearly packed to bursting.

Daenerys filled her goblet with Dornish red and lifted it high, waiting for the crowd to silence themselves.

“To courage and dragons,” she toasted, smiling first at Jon, then at Arya and Tyrion. “We leave in seven days’ time.”

They returned the gesture. A sort of numbness settled over Jon; he could not back out, not now, but he did not know what would happen if he went forward. He had joined the Night’s Watch at fourteen, been murdered as Lord Commander only two years later, but Valyria held a primal terror that he had grown up with and that would likely never fade. He pushed aside the fear and raised his glass once more.

It was too late for fear to come to him now. He would fly, and he must trust that Daenerys had not seen their deaths.

“I want you to teach me how to fight,” Dany said the next morning. She had summoned Jon to her chambers in the top of one high, black tower, where she paced the smooth balcony in her riding leathers. “If I am to be Aegon the Dragon come again, I must needs learn. And there were swords in Valyria; something must have survived the Doom. I will not be defenseless again because my guard is not near. Visenya fought; why should I not?”

“Why now?” Jon asked her. She had shown no desire to learn how to wield a sword even when she was facing off against Cersei Lannister; the sudden interest seemed unusual.

Dany braced her forearms against the balcony’s black railing, staring out over the ocean.

“I nearly died on the Dothraki sea while I carried Rhaego. A Westerosi spy sought to poison me. A Sorrowful Man tried to kill me on the docks in Qarth, and I was defenseless then, as well. Perhaps those times could not have been stopped by a sword if I had carried one, but others could have. My weapons are my children; without them, I have no defenses. I would at least learn to use a knife if I am to be traveling without my guards.”

“You did not ask back in King’s Landing. The lady Brienne might have taught you, or some member of the Kingsguard.”

“The lady Brienne has her own tasks, and the Kingsguard their duty. To be frank, Jon, I did not know that I wanted to learn until recently.”

Jon had taught the Night’s Watch recruits, true, but this was different. Dany was no wildling spearwife, less fragile than he. She was shorter than Arya and willowy, slender of limb and less likely than his little sister to go running wild through the castle grounds. He had never taught anyone quite like her to swing a sword.

He hadn’t. Arya, though…Arya already loved Daenerys. She knew how to use a sword, a knife, any weapon Daenerys needed.

“Lady Daenerys, I am not sure if I could teach you,” he began. Her face fell.

“I understand—”

“Arya could do it, though.”

Dany’s violet eyes lit up. “I should have thought of that earlier,” she breathed. “Seven, Jon, that’s brilliant. She’s amazing.”

She smiled brilliantly, and Jon found himself smiling back.

“It’ll keep her out of trouble, too,” he replied, laughing. “I’m not sure she’s left a single stone in Dragonstone unturned.”

Dany’s smile grew wistful. “I wish I had the freedom she did when I was as young as she. I wish I was still able to see the world as bright, even after…”

Even after King’s Landing had burned, and she was blamed for her father’s and the Lannisters’ wildfire. Jon had known her as the girl who had come north with fire and blood. She had never been the same since that destruction, never again been as young and hopeful.

“I saw her tagging around your bloodriders,” Jon said after a stretch. “Arya, I mean. She’ll want to speak with you.”

“Of course,” Dany murmured. “I’ll go.”

Neither of them moved. Jon stood beside Dany and watched the ocean break against Dragonstone; he wondered if he would ever see even this inhospitable bit of Westeros again should they sail to Old Valyria. He had seen the lands of Always Winter. Was his fate, then, to die in fire when he had lived in ice?

He did not know. He might never know, not until they landed in Valyria.

The sky opened the day before they set out. Jon awoke to the sound of rain pelting the glass panes of his chambers, and not one of the dragons had taken to the sky. Wind whistled through the castle and beat out a noise like a great flute on the Stone Drum. Jon braced himself against the coming storm.

He dressed in black. He would change garments for the feast that night, but black had been his color even when he was Ned Stark’s bastard back in Winterfell. He had not taken to the rich fabrics and colors of King’s Landing and the rest of the South, and Daenerys had been glad to gift him with garments in the colors of House Targaryen. His house, she had said; Jon had not figured out what part of him was Targaryen and what part was Stark.

His hands hovered over a thick black cloak he had brought south with him, but he passed it over for a thinner one with a red lining. He might as well dress his part for the day. A Targaryen bastard instead of a Stark one. He would look even more the part at the feast that night; he regarded the rich clothes hanging in the corner of his chamber with no little trepidation.

The feast was the talk of the island. Ships had been docking for the past three days to let off passengers for the send-off. By this point, Jon had to duck around ten or twenty lords and ladies just to get to the armory, and then he had to vie for even a bit of space around the people cooing at the dragons to run through his drills in the morning. Eventually, he had given up on the courtyard and retreated to a smaller, private yard, mercifully empty of everyone except for his little cousin, who was happily swinging Needle at a minor lord’s son. The boy couldn’t keep up; Arya had him at sword point half a dozen times before Jon had even run through his basics.

“You’ll be the terror of Dragonstone by tomorrow, little sister,” he told her, giving her a fond look. She stuck out her tongue.

“I was the ghost of Harrenhall, too. How many titles do _you_ have?”

He ruffled her hair. “Beast.”

The sun reached its zenith and began its descent. Arya scampered off to cause some other bout of mischief, and Jon wandered the halls of Dragonstone half a ghost. The feast would not begin for some hours, Tyrion was holed up in the private library, and Dany was busy with last-minute preparations. He had nowhere to be, so he sat in his rooms, paced the wall, and was lost in memory.

He had not wanted to leave the Night’s Watch. He had fought with his brothers against every threat to be had, living and dead, and had somehow emerged alive, with the help of the Red God. But Satin had found him on top of the wall one day as he watched the blue mountains in the distance.

_Your brothers want to speak with you, my lord,_ his steward had said. Satin had been nervous; that was Jon’s first cue that something was not right. Satin had been terrified of many things when he had first joined the watch, but he had faced off against the army of the dead, and Jon Snow counted him a friend. He had no reason to be scared.

So Jon had, with some trepidation, gone down to Castle Black’s common hall to find the Black Brothers gathered and awaiting him. Their faces were solemn, and their numbers were great. That was when a hair of fear had crept into Jon’s numb chest.

_What is this? _He had asked. Dolorous Edd was the one to answer him.

_‘I will not rest until my watch has ended.’ Those are the words. Well, as I reckon, your watch did end. It ended when your brothers put their knives through you, only you were lucky enough to make it out the other side. You died, and that’s as final an end as any. _

Jon had known what was coming after that. They had stood, nearly every crow in Castle Black, and released him from his vows. For his service, for his death, he had lost the only home he’d known for years without a chance to argue.

So he and his dragon went south.

A servant knocked on his door when the time came to prepare for the feast. Jon thanked her and donned the black clothes, trying to forget what the color had once meant to him. The air of melancholy had not yet left when he met Daenerys and Tyrion in the great hall, though it faded when he saw his friends.

“Gods, Daenerys, did you invite all the Seven Kingdoms?” Tyrion groused when he saw the crowds. She laughed.

“I invited my allies. The Velaryons have long served House Targaryen, and are of Valyrian blood, besides, as are the Celtigars, bannermen sworn to me. Minor lords have been appeased with an invitation, my loyal knights have come, and those of my army who stayed here have a greater place than any at my table,” she said, sweeping her arms at the crowd. This was natural to her, that much was evident.

Daenerys had dressed in a black dress that glittered with red. Her skirts, patterned to look like dragon scales, revealed swaths of red when she moved, and her sleeves trailed red, as well. Black silk gloves embroidered with red dragons covered her hands. Her bodice was edged with tiny rubies, the rich red stones flashing with each flickering torch. Rubies hung from silver earrings, a delicate silver necklace dripped with the stones, and rubies had been threaded through her hair along with her Dothraki bells; she shimmered with red and black and silver, and the bells touted her victories each time she took a step. She wore no cloth-of-gold, no Myrish lace, but she outshone every woman in the room.

Jon, too, wore black. He had foregone a bastard’s sigil, a black dragon on a red field, but red threads were still scattered throughout his doublet. His cloak was edged with red, his tunic hemmed in scarlet cloth, but the rest of his clothes were dark as night, even the belt that Longclaw hung off. Where Tyrion, standing next to him, glowed gold and scarlet, he shone black.

Dany outshone them, too.

“Come, take your seats,” she murmured to them as she led them to the head table. Missandei was seated there, and an empty place had been left for Arya, who had taken to teaching Dany to fight like a duck took to water. Dany took her seat in the middle and sat Jon beside her, with Tyrion at the end.

She made her toasts—to Jon and Tyrion, to the Velaryons and their support, to the health of King Stannis Baratheon and his daughter. They ate and drank, and musicians struck up a melody when the food’s flow began to peter out. Dany took to the floor when a slower beat began to play, and the people in the hall flooded in after her. Even Tyrion joined the chaos, laughing as the young daughter of a minor lord asked him to dance with her. Soon, Jon had lost him and Daenerys both in the flashes of color.

Jon danced, too; here, even highborn girls asked him for a dance, and he obliged. He broke away from the floor only when he was truly out of breath. He tucked behind a column, laughing and panting in equal measure, and leaned up against the pillar to catch his breath.

Something rustled beside him. He turned his head to see Daenerys leaning against the wall opposite him. Strands of silver hair had escaped her intricate style and fell around her face, and she was flushed from the dance and the wine, though she still had her wits about her.

“Jon!” she exclaimed, giggling. “Have you come to escape the heat or the crowds?”

Jon smiled. “My lady, perhaps it might be prudent to leave the hall for a time.”

Dany pushed aside the loose strands of hair. “I fear my wits are not quite about me yet; do you care to accompany me?”

He acquiesced, and she took his outstretched arm. The cool air cleansed him from the heady scent and too-warm air of the hall; Dany’s silk-gloved hand tightened on his arm as she tilted her face skywards.

“It is much easier to think out here,” she murmured over the roar of the hall. “I do not feel so much like I’m about to tip over. I have not attended a feast quite like this one since His Grace named me Lady of Dragonstone, and I did not even hold that one.”

“I’m surprised you were able to tear yourself away from the Celtigars,” Jon said. “They have been seeking your favor ever since you returned.”

Dany made a face. “The Celtigars are not my first choice of ally, though I would hear their words as I hear my other bannermen. But I did not come to speak of crabs. How did you find the festivities?”

“They are better now that I am not in the midst of them,” Jon retorted. Dany laughed.

“I find myself thinking the same thing.

“I confess that I have little desire to return to the feast,” he stated.

Dany grinned conspiratorially.

“Follow me. This, I think, you will enjoy more than a feast.”

They snuck out the back route. Dany’s absence would be missed soon, but enough Velaryons and Celtigars had been invited that silver hair and violet eyes were not all that uncommon. One lady might be hard to find, even the most beautiful woman in the world.

They were both laughing by the time they made it to the dragon stables. The huge structure had only recently been completed, and only in its temporary form, but it was wide enough to house the three dragons and their equipment, besides. Dany ducked beneath a hanging banner and through a hidden entrance, and Jon followed. She had lost her gloves along the way, and she held out a pale hand to him.

“Here,” Dany breathed, standing before a long, covered table. A heavy white cloth covered it, though Jon could see several curved shapes beneath it.

“Are these the saddles?” he asked, pausing at her side. She nodded and released his grip.

“It was the least I could do. The ones you ride with now are suitable, but these are more than that. I was going to wait until tomorrow to unveil them. Would you like the first glimpse?”

“I…I would like that,” he answered honestly. This felt a little like Longclaw all over again.

Dany smiled at him, grabbed one side of the cloth, and pulled. It slid from the saddles in a wave to nestle at their feet; when the thin film of dust settled back down, Jon moved up to examine the new saddles.

Each was made of new leather, though it did not feel too stiff beneath Jon’s fingers. Steel rings and buckles bound all the intricate pieces together, and the straps that went around the dragon’s belly was long enough to encompass a few more years’ worth of growth. They were all beautiful pieces of craftsmanship.

He examined the steel decorations on the first saddle. It was carved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the dragons’ eyes chips of dragonglass and their scales all ruby. There were three of these, one on each side and a center piece that landed in the middle of the dragon’s chest. The center dragon had amethyst eyes and black scales with only a few rubies scattered throughout.

“This one is yours,” he murmured as he stared at the sigils. Dany nodded.

The next one had two lions glittering in gold, with emerald eyes. Its stirrups were quite a bit shorter than its neighbors’, and the center lion had one eye of dragonglass and one of emerald.

“Cripples, bastards, and broken things,” Jon muttered. “Those craftsmen are good at what they do.”

Dany laughed at that. “That is why I employed them. Look, yours is next.”

It was. The two wolves on the saddle itself were dark steel on light, with dragonglass eyes and ivory teeth. The center one, though, was different. A white wolf’s head stared out at Jon, its mouth open in a snarl and its eyes glowing red as weirwood leaves. Rubies, these ones brighter than the dragons on Dany’s saddle.

“You have your wolf on your sword. Now, you will always ride with him, too,” Dany said, coming up to stand beside him. “Does it please you?”

It did. Even though they were ornamented, they were not ostentatious like some of the southron lords had looked with their suits of enameled armor. They were beautiful; they were works of art. The work was impeccable, but so was the thought that had gone into each one. These would have taken weeks to make; she must have commissioned them before she even thought up the idea of traveling to Valyria. Three matching saddles for the three dragon riders of their time.

Jon heard a soft snuffle and turned around in time to catch Ghost padding through the banner. The direwolf nosed Jon’s shoulder, then turned to look at the saddle.

“It’s just like the sword,” Jon murmured. “It’s you.”

Ghost did naught but blink, but Jon sensed something warm in the bond they shared. He laughed and scratched behind Ghost’s ears.

“This is amazing, truly, my lady,” he said. “I do not know how to thank you.”

“There is no need for titles when we are alone, Jon,” she said. “And your appreciation is thanks enough.

“Come, though. You will see these again on the morrow, and there is something else I wish for you to see.”

This piqued Jon’s curiosity; he followed Daenerys out through the tapestry, this time with Ghost at his side. She led him around to the back of the stables, where they met the cliff behind them. There, he noticed a narrow, winding set of stairs carved into the rock—Valyrian stairs, as smooth as the rest of the castle, though so well-hidden that they had vanished into the rocks around them for years on end. When Dany began to climb them, he followed behind. If she could do it in a dress and slippers, he could do it in boots.

The stairs ended in a little flat area thick with grass and a single windblown pine tree. Dany pushed the slender trunk to the wide; behind its branches, a wide arch was cut into the cliff. Formed from two intertwined dragons and clearly made with Valyrian spells, the arch led into a moon-bathed stone room.

“I found this place one night when I could not sleep,” Dany murmured, leading him in. “I am not sure how it was undiscovered, but it has not been touched in a very long time.”

Jon’s breath caught in his throat. The cave’s floor was round and carved with tiny channels. Hundreds of years of rain had made their mark, but the figures and patterns were still clear beneath his feet. Opposite the arched doorway, the cave had no wall; it was open, with nothing between him and a drop that must have been hundreds of feet down to a rocky shore. None of that mattered, though, when Jon looked out at the ocean and the moon.

The moon was almost full that night. It hung suspended like a jewel behind the ropes of moss that hung down across the window, shielding the cave from the sight of any man or ship below. Its light hit the stone floor and lit it up, illuminating every piece of Valyrian craftsmanship for Jon to see.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked hoarsely. Dany laughed behind him.

“This is my favorite place on the island. I do not always love Dragonstone, but I do love this. I wished for you to see what our ancestors created, too.”

He turned his head to look at her; here, she had never looked more at home.

Daenerys shone silver in the moonlight. Her dress, sewn to look like dragon scales, glittered blackly in contrast. The red accents which had been so visible in the warm firelight of the hall vanished out here; the red stones in her ears, around her neck, and braided into her hair shone like dark drops of blood. She held all the beauty and power of Old Valyria, and she looked a queen. The only thing missing was a crown.

She caught his eye and smiled. A true smile, soft and gentle, that made her look younger than her eighteen years. “I am glad you will fly beside me tomorrow, Jon Snow.”

“I am glad to fly beside you, Daenerys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update, guys. School started up again, and so did my sport, so I have very limited time to write except on weekends. This chapter was also a bit of a pain to crank out; I'm hoping that the next few will have a more interesting setting (and will be less all-over-the-place).  
To clear up some confusion I've noticed regarding Tyrion being a dragon rider: he is NOT a Targaryen. He has no Valyrian blood, nothing to do with Aerys, no product of a weird affair. He is the third head of the dragon simply because I've seen a lot of speculation on the internet that he will be, and it was the theory that made the most sense to me. He is able to ride Rhaegal because of the Dragonbinder. Exact details are hazy as of right now, but magic bound him and him alone (not his bloodline, not any of his relatives) to Rhaegal.  
Thanks for reading, and feel free to point out any mistakes I might have made. I don't have a beta reader yet. Next up: Daenerys II, in which the dragon riders take flight for Old Valyria.

**Author's Note:**

> This is book canon only, as I have never seen nor do I plan to see the TV series. As such, characters that do not exist in the show will be mentioned, and characters that the show invented will not.  
Descriptions of the Starks’ (and Jon’s) looks are based largely on Tumblr users gaystannis and icesalamander, among others.  
Timing-wise, for the purposes of this story, TWOW and ADOS took up two years, so the time from the first book to the end of the series is four years. As this is a year later, five years have passed since the beginning of AGOT.  



End file.
